


Thanks for That

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: (previous mention of Peter/Olivia/Lincoln), F/F, Let's Get Astrid Laid, Multi, Olivia/Peter - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>References upon references upon references in this fic.  Bare with me, because the head-canons are pretty tangled at the kink meme.  Riffing off Concentric, Liaison, and the five or so other threesome fics I’ve written - as well as Kerithwyn’s and Mona’s stories, which tend to be written at length and are more engaging than the snapshots I specialize in.  All of which establish Lincoln’s slept and had a relationship with both Olivia <em>and<em> Peter.  </em></em></p><p> </p><p>  <em><br/><em>Touches on Mona’s head-cannon that Lincoln is in fact, attractive to everyone in the Fringe verse, and the various kink-meme writers who jumped on that theory with gusto, pairing him with Charlie, Frank, Astrid, Peter, Liv, and even himself on any number of occasions.   Touches on elfin's excellent Living Just to Breathe – who ran with that theory and included Etta, too - as well as providing a means in how to make that relationship work, via amber.  </em><br/></em></p><p> </p><p>  <em><br/><em>Mostly, thanks to the actual canon writers – who wrote Letters in Transit and gave us season five – with an adult version of their child and all the natural awkwardness it entails.</em><br/></em></p></blockquote>





	Thanks for That

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monanotlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/gifts).



“I don’t really want to talk about them,” Etta warns. She peels her shirt off and drops it. The jeans are low on her hips, the holes in the leather belt worn down from repeated use.

Astrid’ pops the buckle with one hand and answers devoutly: “It’s not a problem.”

Etta’s feet are grubby, dirt between the toes - the detail takes Astrid off-stride - her face is pot-stained with flecks of grime from the last mission. The other woman crawls up the mattress, body low as a lizard, arms braced wide. Etta’s stomach is flat, ribs spare, small-sized breasts and not enough body fat. Her teeth are caught in her bottom lip and when she kisses Astrid it’s a strike, coiled and spitting venom.

It’s rough.

She leaves diamond patterns on Astrid’s skin. She folds her vulva aside and licks upward with the flat of her tongue, fingers hooked and crooked. When they’re finished, Etta pads out naked from the bed, walks to the basin and washes the grime from her body. “Thanks for that,” she says over her shoulder, dismissive.

Astrid raises herself onto one elbow and nods. “Don’t mention it.”

There’s a stutter, a slow blink, then Etta gathers her jacket and walks out the door. The clock flashes at ten past one in the morning.

 

It’s longer the second time: one might even say there’s foreplay, or what counts as conversation. Certain subjects are off topic, ‘them’ in big capital letters and italics being one, the resistance and Simon the other. Etta tucks her blonde hair behind her ears, sits cross-legged on the bed, and simply touches Astrid. The sensation so light it’s ephemeral. The static of air caught between their skin warms surely, the overhead light casts them in burnished gold. Etta follows the contours of Astrid’s body: the valleys, the hillocks of her knobby knees. She pulls the bra-strap aside, and glides her fingertip down Astrid’s sternum, brushing her nipples and down to the navel. Steady, for the first time since Astrid’s known her - Etta displays patience. Her kisses are careful. Her teeth never catch. But she returns to Astrid’s lips like a person deprived from water, kisses that run dark and deep, that leave Astrid bruised all the same. Lips bee-swollen and wet.

When Astrid returns the touch, or tries to, Etta pulls away. She’s tense, vibrating on a frequency Astrid can’t read, some secret chord between G and C – between red and blue. “Don’t tell me I look like my mother.”

“I thought we weren’t mentioning them,” Astrid returns calmly. The clock ticks over to a quarter to four, and she drops her voice to an intimate whisper. “Don’t break your own rules, girl.”

Etta’s fingers tighten on Astrid’s thighs; settle in the soft skin behind her buttocks.

“Thanks for that,” Etta says, later. She hesitates, jacket swinging from her forefinger, but doesn’t pull it on.

Astrid raises her head from the pillow, arms folded underneath, sleepy-eyed and satiated. “Hm-mm.”

 

The third time it’s a good day, a fantastic night and in the wee hours of the morning, it’s splendid sex.

It starts with the four of them sitting at the table. There is no beer, precious little alcohol - but where there’s Walter Bishop there’s narcotics and an accidental dosage has them all extremely relaxed. Walter, ironically, wasn’t affected in the least, his tolerance levels surpassing them all. His snores drift in from the couch while everyone else is too wired to sleep.

It’s three girls and one boy and there are too many t-shirts, bare arms, exposed skin. There’s zero parental guidance and for the first time in a _long_ time, the conversation is easy.

“That’s an awful plan,” Olivia insists.

Peter smirks at her. “Don’t hold back on your opinion there, sweetheart.”

“Well, it _is_ ,” Etta agrees.

“I miss Lincoln,” Peter bemoans. “The gender ratio is all out of whack. There’s no support here.”

“Feeling out-numbered?” Astrid asks. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be intimidated.”

“Three women doesn’t intimidate me. But the three of you are terrifying.”

Etta, sprawled in her seat, looks from one to another. “Who’s Lincoln?”

“Oh, hey, I have a picture!”

“You have a picture?” Peter repeats.

“Don’t judge,” Astrid whispers fiercely and pulls out a photograph from her wallet. It was taken in the early days, before Peter materialized in their world - when Lincoln had just arrived from Hartford. He’s standing stiffly, his face in profile; Walter and Olivia can be seen in the background, bent near the science table.

Etta breathes out. “He’s gorgeous. You guys didn’t amber him, too?” There’s an awkward silence, a heaviness that weighs in. Etta raises her head and Astrid has to bite her lip from reacting. Olivia and Peter both have perfect poker faces on. “Oh,” Etta says, startled. “Who slept with him?”

Olivia colors faintly. Peter stares up at the ceiling, his jaw clenching. “We’re missing important, critical, steps here – like a thirty-odd age gap – and our child thinking we’re old and heinous. You shouldn’t be _asking_ these type of questions.”

Etta blinks and says incredulously. “ _Everyone_ slept with him?”

“I’m going to bed,” Olivia says diplomatically, and hauls Peter up after her.

Etta stares at the photo for a moment longer then carefully hands it back. “He was part of our team for a while and then he left,” Astrid explains. “Things got complicated.”

“Not like us?”

“No. Not like us.”

Etta looks away, a line appearing on her forehead as she frowns, as if somehow, Astrid’s answer wasn’t as reassuring as she had hoped. Carefully, Astrid hooks their fingers together.

Etta’s pale cream and long bones. Astrid could bury her nose in the hollow of her throat, breathe in her scent, she could place her hands on the flare of her hips, wash her feet clean. They trade kisses, languid, and everything seems brighter, more disjointed, head reeling from the opiates and the lazy invitation of Etta’s sprawl. She likes to be in control. But Astrid senses vulnerability, an undertone of shyness as Etta whispers. “I like you.”

“What do you like?”

“Your laugh, and your instinctive kindness, I like the way you treat me.”

Astrid kisses her pelvic bone, tastes Etta at her most intimate. She uses fingers and tongue, slick, because she believes in slippery ease. She uses two fingers, then three, wrist arched, fingers stroking long, tucks in four and listens to Etta pant, shudder through it, the contractions of her orgasm tightening around Astrid’s wrist. It’s sloppy, never rough, and when she quiets, Astrid goes back to using tongue. Etta curls in tight afterwards, eyes open. She never once says: “ Thanks for that.” She stumbles out of the bed at seven-thirty, the buttons on her shirt crooked, smelling like sex. She smiles faintly and leaves her jacket on Astrid’s bed like a place-setter. “See you tonight?”

“Yes,” Astrid says, propped on one elbow.

Etta opens the door and walks straight into Peter, who’s standing in the corridor, shirt in disarray, unwashed, and a three o clock shadow on his face. He’s balanced on one foot while tugging on his other boot and for a moment, they blink at each other comically.

“I don’t want to know.”

**Author's Note:**

> References upon references upon references in this fic. Bare with me, because the head-canons are pretty tangled at the kink meme. Riffing off Concentric, Liaison, and the five or so other threesome fics I’ve written - as well as Kerithwyn’s and Mona’s stories, which tend to be written at length and are more engaging than the snapshots I specialize in. All of which establish Lincoln’s slept and had a relationship with both Olivia _and _Peter.__
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _Touches on Mona’s head-cannon that Lincoln is in fact, attractive to everyone in the Fringe verse, and the various kink-meme writers who jumped on that theory with gusto, pairing him with Charlie, Frank, Astrid, Peter, Liv, and even himself on any number of occasions. Touches on elfin's excellent Living Just to Breathe – who ran with that theory and included Etta, too - as well as providing a means in how to make that relationship work, via amber._  
> _
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _Mostly, thanks to the actual canon writers – who wrote Letters in Transit and gave us season five – with an adult version of their child and all the natural awkwardness it entails._  
> _


End file.
